


Defragmentation

by HippolytaGale



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: 2nd POV, F/F, Missing Scenes, Some light violence, Very light sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7772536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippolytaGale/pseuds/HippolytaGale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could be annoying as hell, goddammit, but that didn’t mean you wanted her to end up face down in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. Whether Root thought she needed a safety net or not, you weren’t going to let her throw herself into a shitfest without backup.</p><p>(Or, how Shaw falls in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defragmentation

In the ISA you and Cole had a hobby you both hated, but it was a tradition. 

“Okay, your turn,” Cole said over the comm. You mulled it over.

“Here’s one: ‘I would walk over a pile of used hypodermic needles for the chance to see you naked.’”

“Christ. Where was that one again?”

“Mumbai.”

“That’s right. He was a real smooth one, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, real classy.” Across the street, a man walks across the sightline of your scope. “Playtime’s over. I’ve got the target.”

It was like a scab you couldn’t stop picking. During your globe-trotting adventures, the same subject came up in the downtime between missions and evacs: shared stories of the shitty people overheard in bars and hotel lounges and brothels. It was like cataloging the problems of least-favorite vacations; just something to do to fill time and avoid discussing anything that mattered.

“Show me a beautiful woman, and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her.” 

That had been Cole’s worst quotation contribution, eavesdropped from a source in Moscow right before you pinned the target’s palm to the mahogany table with a dinner fork. There was some satisfaction pulling info out from that one. Women were just as bad, whether they were slapping their spouses around at home or spouting the same bullshit in a different venue. People used others, then shrugged them off like trash. Still, Cole was always optimistic in the end.

“Give someone a chance, Sam. It’s not all doom-and-gloom.”

He was optimistic, but that didn’t mean he had what he wanted. If you had known how he felt about you before…Well, it was too late now. 

You figured that you’d just take a few shots of whiskey when you went out and skip the burden of relationships altogether, and on most nights that was what happened. You had a slow-burning hatred of assholes, even if they sometimes did end up in your bed for a few hours, but that was the life of a secret agent–it was easy to make sex a single event; some flirting, some fucking, over and done. No muss, no fuss. Stepping on those people in the bedroom was uncomplicated and, you had to admit, fun in the right mood. 

Maybe that was why you had slept with Root at the CIA pickup site on your first job together; you were pissed off and frazzled, and wanted to fuck that smirk right off Root’s face after the verbal foreplay wore down your nerves. It worked, too. Zip ties and skilled hands with hours to waste could do that. The next morning Root’s knowing smile was still there, her delighted gaze clinging to you like a filmy second skin you couldn’t escape, but you rolled your eyes and moved on with the bothersome feeling that sleeping with Root was going to make everything more obnoxious somehow. Casual sex was rarely that good though; a lot of things could be excused just for that. And as overwhelming as Root’s personality was, you found yourself watching out for her. 

When Control captured Root, you went looking for her. Whenever Root was in town, you noticed the injuries stretched out over the months, or the visible ones at least—a forearm purpled with bruises, the stiffness of a sprained wrist, a handful of ugly crescents and pockmarks (grazing knife blades, Taser entry points, the starburst of a bullet’s entry, you catalogued them all) scabbing over to reveal shiny pink scar tissue, kept hidden by leather jackets and long sleeves and a cavalier attitude, and even if you had to cuff her punk ass to a chair in the subway, Root got those injuries checked and treated. They were evidence of her survival, but they were also a warning. _If this had gone any differently,_ they whispered through her skin, _she would be dead._ She could be annoying as hell, goddammit, but that didn’t mean you wanted her to end up face down in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. Whether Root thought she needed a safety net or not, you weren’t going to let her throw herself into a shitfest without backup.

That had always been Cole’s job, huddling over data and looking over your shoulder with a thousand camera eyes—you could handle about anything, but it was a comfort to know he was there. In New York, John was your wingman—barring that, Harold was in your ear. Even Fusco was in your corner every now and again. You could crack heads better than any of them, but each of your companions were still essential. That’s what they taught in the corps: a soldier was just one thread of a close-knit whole. The rest of Team Machine covered your ass, and you protected theirs. It was what kept you all alive.

But who was watching over Root? The Machine was there to guide her, but software wasn’t much good when the bullets ran out. In New York, she came and went like morning fog; instantly earning attention upon arrival and yet unnoticed when she vanished until long after the fact. Her great competence and ability were of no comfort, and when you squared down and looked into your feelings—the ones Genrika had compared to the murmuring of old tapes—and you thought about the scars and the bruises dotting Root’s slender frame, thought of the amused gleam that hovered in her gaze and the silly, pithy retorts that peppered your conversations, and you figured out that the idea of Root crashing into places filled with armed men alone all the time _bothered_ you. 

So when Root swung by on a motorcycle with a mission in Alaska, you were on board. Steal a jet, kneecap some idiots, take a break from the city, keep the perky psycho from getting herself killed—it would be a blast, even with Root’s cloying lack of personal space and heavy-handed flirting. What you hadn’t expected from it was the beginning of a metamorphosis; the turning of partners to friends, of friends to something consuming, like a lit match in the brain, small at first, but growing with every kindling event, every small moment that fed its existence. They were memories that would sneak up on you a long time later, after the Ice-9 virus was contained and the Machine’s new voice began to speak to you instead; moments you had catalogued unconsciously and stored away, only to be remembered in a burst during quiet times. Things you couldn’t forget.

 

 

“You can fly, Root?”

“I haven’t for a few years. I may be a touch rusty.”

The Gulfstream’s cockpit was luxurious compared to the cramped seating you were expecting. You stare at the varied knobs and switches as Root’s fingers dance across them, her eyes alternating between displays and gauges, one hand steady on the controls for takeoff. The plane lurches forward on the runway. 

“Hmm.” Root adjusts the engine control, puzzled, and the plane evens out its thrust. “There we go.” 

“It’s been how many years since you’ve done this and we’re stealing a military jet in, what, sixteen hours? Good thing the Machine’s in your ear.”

“Relax, Shaw. It’s just like riding a bike.”

After topping off the fuel in Minot you’re back on track to Anchorage. You throw your pea coat into the cabin, and Root asks about the caduceus tattoo on your forearm.

“What do you care?”

“Just making conversation. It is a skill most adults have.” Root said. You roll your eyes.

“I got it before med school.” 

“It’s the same,” Root notes. 

She doesn’t have to say the rest; the tattoo is identical to your dad’s. You wonder how far back the Machine’s records go; did it really bother going through your father’s service records for trivia like that? To know that a father and daughter had matching tattoos?

“If you were so set on being a doctor, did you ever think you’d end up in the ISA?” Root asks.

“No. The plan was to have the Marines pay for med school and do some tours on a hospital ship. I didn’t think I’d see real combat duty, even with my scores.”

You should’ve though, because your father was a better surgeon than you were. He was better at saving people, and you were better at killing them.

“The Machine says you were brilliant.”

That catches you by surprise. If words were capable of stinging, that might’ve done the trick. It would’ve made your gut twist as you remembered a flash of memory from a lifetime ago, an old white man in his sixties that made your hands curl into fists like they are now.

_You have a brilliant mind, Sameen. And you're very gifted. But you'll never be a doctor._

Your supervisor was probably right. You were skilled with a scalpel and your hands never wavered, but the connections between your brain and your heart were missing. Your father was the healer: when he served he was a trauma surgeon and saved a lot of soldiers’ lives, but he was also the man who placed Band-Aids on your scraped knees and delivered premature babies safely to weeping mothers, served in Tehran for Doctors Without Borders after his time with the Marines was up. Mom’s stories about her life there profoundly bothered him—even with a toddler at home, he had to help others for as long as he was able. (He would make up the time with his daughter later, with camping and road trips and football games, until the one trip ended all that.)  


Though he never talked about his time in the military, when you were a teenager you imagined him in the field, bloodied by others’ wounds, heart breaking with every loss his patients suffered, gritting his teeth and swearing to save the next one, and the next one. He didn’t give up; he fought for them in his own way. You wanted that. You wanted to help people like he did, to follow in his footsteps. Taking care of the sick was part of his humanity, the noblest goal a good man had. And like the tattoo, going into medical school and the Marines afterwards seemed like a way to honor what you remembered of him—flashes in your memory of a kind smile, brown hair, and a smartass mouth. On the sparse bad days, the fierce, steady ache of angry loss in your chest, a rare kind of wound that never healed over completely.

But you could never tap into that passion your father possessed—the burning need to heal the hurt. He had the skills and the empathy, and you were just a poor impersonator. You weren’t wired for it after all. But then, the Machine already knew that. 

“Brilliance doesn’t mean jack.” Your mouth sets in a line. “Your pal upstairs needs to keep her nose out of my business.” You tug the sleeve of your sweatshirt back down to your wrist, covering the tattoo.

“Shaw,” Root calls, quiet in a way you haven’t heard before, devoid of simpering. A door inside you slams shut. You glare over, hating the look of pity on Root’s face.

“Are you even flying this thing, or what?”

“Shaw,” Root repeats. She leans forward, and her gaze isn’t filled with pity at all, you realize. It is clear and focused, understanding even. 

“They were wrong.” Root says. She frowns, turning her attention back to the endless sky in front of the cockpit. “What they said back then? They were wrong.”

You don’t speak again until landing. You look out the window the whole time, turning Root’s words over in your mind.

 

 

Anchorage is light on the action for the first twelve hours. You hole up in a hotel suite decorated with too many earth tones, and Root sets up a kit of computer equipment out of a heavy black case. She puts on a pair of headphones, queues up music you can’t hear outside of a faint, fast baseline, and starts typing long strings of code into a window. Occasionally Root shifts in her seat, her delicate hands knitting behind her head as she stretches her neck, but otherwise she’s at the keyboard. The tapping is incessant. 

“What are you cracking?” You ask.

“I hacked the militia’s server when we got here. Now, I’m writing a program. It’s going to help us slip through their radar detection software once they realize we’re not the pilots we say we are.”

“Good. Rather not end the day in a slag heap.”

Root scoffs, a playful twist in her mouth. “I’d never let anything happen to you, Shaw. You keep things interesting.”

“Whatever.” You reply. Root’s flirting isn’t even registering much anymore with its frequency. Your stomach growls, never-ending in its insistence for something to digest. “I’m going out.”

The beer is for you, and both of the sandwiches were supposed to be too, but you make Root take one. The other woman takes a few bites, then becomes reabsorbed in the screen in front of her. You take apart her sidearm, cleaning and oiling it even though it wasn’t necessary. You do the same for Root’s guns too. By the time you get to the last beer, you are bored beyond belief, and out of alcohol too.

“Be patient, Sameen.” Root says, pushing aside one earphone.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“I can _hear_ you frowning.” 

“Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I had something to do.” 

_Or someone,_ you think, and remember the CIA safe house—you really shouldn’t have drunk all that brew; Root was looking good right now, with calm blue-white light from the computer bathing her face, a flattering shadow pooled under her fine jawline, a bit ethereal even in the most mundane of settings. You don’t realize how long you’d been watching until Root snaps her laptop shut, plunging the room into darkness.

“Change of plans, Shaw,” Root says. “We have three minutes.” You bolt upright, thankful that your high booze tolerance has only left your nerves a bit fuzzy and not inebriated.

“Trouble?”

“A trigger team is in the lobby,” She says. She switches on a lamp, stuffing the laptop back into its case. “They’re much earlier than She anticipated; we were supposed to beat them to the airstrip by an hour. They must have a better trace team than we thought.” Root pauses, listening. “I understand. We’re leaving now.”

She grabs your arm on the way out, her fingers as rigid as steel.

“We need to get invisible. If we start a firefight the security at the landing strip will make stealing that jet next to impossible.”

You walk into the hall and pull the fire alarm. Shrill klaxons and an evacuation announcement begin to blare.

“Nothing like a little cover.” You say.

You hide within crowds of fleeing guests until you reach the parking garage and some goon steps out from behind a corner and makes a grab for Root, or maybe just Root’s laptop; it’s blurry, since in the same moment you’re occupied with wrenching another guy’s wrist back far enough to pry the Sig Sauer from his fingers. All you catch is the last moment, when the man clutches Root’s hair in his fist and smashes her head against a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. She stumbles for support, disoriented, but as the man lifts his weapon she takes two fingers of her free hand, their tapered ends folded under the first set of joints, and drives the knuckles into one of the man’s eyes. It’s just enough time for you to blow out both of his knees with your pistol. Root brushes aside a few locks of hair that have fallen into her vision, wincing when her fingers brush her scalp, her hands shaking but only just. She picks up the fallen laptop case and runs, you close behind on her heels.

A half-hour later, you pass over a Ziploc bag of gas-station ice for the goose egg swelling under Root’s hair. You had parked off from the militia’s private airstrip, shrouded in the early darkness and hidden in the tree line. 

“Thanks for the assist back there,” Root says as you look at the facility through a set of night-vision binoculars. 

“Yeah, sure.” You replay the man’s hand snagged in Root’s hair in your mind, feel anger surge waspish into your stomach. “So when some guy smashes your face when I’m not here, what usually happens?”

“I find a way to turn it around.” Root shifts in her seat, not so nonchalant in her posture even though she does a good job hiding it. “He wasn’t the first to get in a lucky punch.” She picks absently at a chipped nail. “I have a way of working things out.” 

“And when you don’t?”

“She finds a way to help. And prevention saves a few headaches down the line; She warned us, didn’t She?”

“Yeah, well, tell her not to cut it so close next time. And if she wants to keep you functional, tell her she needs to stop treating you like a walking bulletproof vest.”

“You’re testy, Shaw. I didn’t realize you were so invested in my personal safety.”

“Look, being a lone wolf might be dandy when you’re a killer for hire, but in the ISA we never went anywhere without a partner. If the Machine wants us to get through this mess with Vigilance and Samaritan alive, she shouldn’t send you off all the time without backup.”

“That’s why you’re here, sweetie.” Root smiles. “She thinks the same. You’re here to look after me.” 

Oh.

 

 

After stealing the plane and giving the enemy militia the biggest of middle fingers, you found yourself thinking back on what Root had said in the car.

_You’re here to look after me._

You land outside of Portland, Oregon and pass the fighter jet off to one of Root’s contacts. You catch a ride into town with one of his guys while Root looks out the window, listening to the Machine’s next instructions, and about an hour after the two of you sat down in one of Harold’s many safe houses Root presses an airplane ticket into your shoulder. 

“Miami. Flight leaves tomorrow, five AM sharp.” She said.

“Wow, the party never stops with you.”

“Transport to the airport’s already been arranged. Are you hungry?” 

That’s a dumb question. When are you not hankering for some grub?

“I’m about ready to chew off my own arm.” You reply. “But if you’re coming with, you better eat your damn food too. Otherwise it’s a waste.”

“Pleasant company makes for a pleasant meal,” Root says, and smirks.

You grab burgers from a shop (sitting down would’ve felt too formal, too much like a vacation or, heaven forbid, _a date_ ) and eat them on the curb. Root offers some of her French fries in exchange for the extra pickles on your burger, and when they’re exchanged Root gets that look on her face, the one you see rarely; the one where her eyes brighten and her smile is small, the look that makes the reality of who she is fade away. It makes her look much younger.

“You know, Sameen, I think this is the first time I’ve ever shared food with you.” 

“Willingly, you mean.” 

“I haven’t done it with the others either.”

“What, you mean Harold’s never taken you out for pizza?”

“The Machine keeps me busy.”

“I can tell.” 

You look at your watch, then down the street. There’s a bright blue building across the street that bustles with people. White LEDs spell out GROUND KONTROL ARCADE over the entrance, and even though the windows are tinted you can see flashes of multicolored pixels washing over endless screens through the open door. You stand up, toss your garbage into a nearby trash can, and offer her a hand.

“Come on, nerd,” You say. “We’re taking a break.”

They have beer at Ground Kontrol, so much of it, and it is delicious. Feeding a ten-dollar bill from your wallet into the change machine sends fistfuls of quarters clattering into Root’s open palm, and she looks delighted by the choice of diversion, eyes scanning over tables that look like they’re made of solid white light and rows of pinball machines on the upper level.

“TRON was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid, but I didn’t think this would be quite up your alley,” She says.

“I’m full of surprises.” You say, taking a deep draught from your glass.

She demolishes you. You don’t even have a chance. Whether in Street Fighter or Mortal Kombat or Marvel vs. Capcom, no matter how many buttons you mash she beats the shit out of you at every turn. It’s pathetic. You are furious in the way that makes you snicker, and it isn’t until she challenges you to air hockey that you have your sweet, delicious revenge. Turns out Root might have learned all the ultimate move combos, but she doesn’t have your raw reflexes; you ricochet the puck into her goal within the first few moments. 

“Get used to it,” You say, a savage note in your voice that is way too serious. She takes that as a challenge.

The puck bounces into the slot again, seconds later.

“I can’t help but feel that I might be a bit overmatched here.” She says, helplessly amused.

You slam her, 7-1, and her point was only because you overreached and hit the puck into your own goal. You play again and beat her 7-0. The wins shut up the competitive idiot that swaggers in the back of your brain, and you can just relax from then on. Over pinball Root talks about some motorcycle stunt she pulled years ago on a job and you crack a smile. You tell her about Cole and how he would give you a play-by-play analysis of the last Penguins’ game over the com when you were both bored. Later she absently puts an arm around your waist at the bar for a second, just one, just long enough to guide you out of the way of another woman squeezing through, and for once you don’t mind. Root buys you another beer, and you buy her a drink too because this is nice. Nice in a Twilight Zone kind of way, but nice. Fun even. 

Maybe that’s why you end up tumbling into bed together later that night; the alcohol can’t be blamed either, because if you’re honest it wore off a long time before you got back to the safe house. She toes off each shoe and slides onto the sheets, and though her eyes flutter from lack of sleep and she expects nothing the only thing you can do is look at the shape of her mouth, the pleasing lines of her cheekbones. You walk to the foot of the mattress, fingers clasping soft around her exposed ankle. It’s finely-shaped and feels fragile, like a bird’s wing, like her entire ballerina body. If you were enemies, she would break under your hands. Now, strangely, the only thing you want is to keep her alive and here with you.

“What is it?” She asks, but she doesn’t need the words to know the answer. You don’t need her words either—permission passes unspoken between you. 

The sex is more careful this time, kinder too; when you push a hand through her hair you mind the goose egg, and though you don’t ask she spends more time touching you than vice versa. For you, sex is never like this. You get yours, and they leave; no muss, no fuss. Sex has always been a collision, a tangle of limbs and biting and pleasurable pain, but rarely does it feel this intense, and never before have you felt the echo of some kind of emotion catch in your chest the way it does when she breathes your name into your ear. Sex with Root isn’t like the others, and as you settle into sleep after a particularly intense orgasm you realize it never will be; it will always be more than you expect.

 

 

By Miami it’s already starting to set in your mind to think of the two of you as a package deal, but the Machine puts the kibosh on that right away when She ships Root off to St. Louis and you back to New York. Root’s back to dropping in on you, but it’s more frequent. She’s in the city more often than not now, which is bizarre; you walk into the library with Reese and there she is, one foot on Finch’s desk, painting her nails with a fresh layer of black polish. 

“Hey, friends.”

“Root.” John nods. “Where’s Harold?”

“Taking Bear on a walk. He just left. Here,” She slides over a set of photographs and documents. “A new number came in today. Harold and I are running his bank account information, but right now it looks like a case of embezzlement gone bad. Can’t say it’s the most exciting case, I’m afraid.” 

She’s right. It isn’t an exciting case. You and Reese tail the subject for a while and when darkness falls you settle in for a stakeout at his apartment, bringing back coffee and candy bars from a shop on the corner while Reese waits for the target in the cold. John drinks his coffee and grimaces at the cheap bitterness of it.

“What are you doing after this?” He asks.

“Nothing. Why?” 

“I’m looking into a lead on Vigilance. One of Lionel’s friends in Customs confiscated a hard drive from one of their agents yesterday and I could use a hand cracking it.”

“What about Finch?”

“He’s been up for the last twenty-two hours working another number with Root. They’ve started on the hard drive too, but it’s going to be an overnight job, and they could use some rest.”

You were thinking of swinging by the library again to see Bear anyway. It had been ages since you had had time to throw a tennis ball for him, and you missed it. You wouldn’t see Root, of course; she would probably be gone, vanished like mist into another new identity. Then again, she might still be hanging around—it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she was.

“Sure. I’ll babysit it when I go back to HQ.”

“Thanks.” He says, and takes another sip of coffee. Another hour passes before the number’s business partner storms his apartment with a .357 in tow and John puts his face through a door. Another day, another save. 

“Oh, Miss Shaw—I wasn’t expecting you. I was about to lock up for the night.” 

Harold has dark rings under his eyes and the alertness he carries in his face has drained away, leaving behind a mask of exhaustion. 

“Reese asked me to finish up your work on the hard drive. He wants to get an early start tomorrow.”

“A wise move,” Harold agrees. “I believe we have already worked past our limits for now, and I’d hate to delay any further action against Vigilance.”

He dons his trilby, whistling for Bear.

“Has Root left?” You ask.

“Miss Groves is sleeping in the study. I would request you take care not to wake her; she told me she’s been active with minimal rest for quite some time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Goodnight, Miss Shaw.”

When he leaves, you poke your head into the study and see Root with an arm thrown over her head and her cheek smooshed into her shoulder, giving her whole face a comical shape. Her boots lie in a pile on the floor, but otherwise it looks like she just fell onto the Chesterfield sofa and passed out right away. She shifts in her sleep, burrowing into the cushions to protect herself from drafts. You pull a throw blanket from the sofa’s arm and toss it over her middle, tucking her arm at her side.

You could work at Harold’s desk, but you bring the laptop to the study instead because the wingback chair looks more inviting. After the decryption software loads and code flashes down the monitor, you put up your feet and wait. With any luck, once it’s open the hard drive would have good intel on Vigilance’s operations or members; the sooner Team Machine could squash them the better. Then they could look further into the other possible ASI, the one Finch and Root talked about late at night: Samaritan. 

Your eyelids start drooping around 2 AM. It’s Root’s fault, you tell yourself; in the extreme quiet of the library the only two sounds other than the steady beat of your heart are the whirrings of the laptop’s fan at odd intervals and the soft sigh of her breathing; inhale to exhale, inhale to exhale, like a tide’s ebb and flow. That makes you think of the ocean, the Mediterranean in fact; the water along the sand stretching into four different shades of green before transitioning into a deep, dark blue. You sailed the Aegean Sea over a week of shore leave once, the solitude soothing after so many missions, the riggings and the rock of the boat an elegant absorption. You’re falling asleep to the memory of it when Root speaks to you. You suck in air as you snap awake.

“What?” You grunt. She mumbles and turns over, hair falling over her face. Her eyes are still closed when she speaks again, a slew of unintelligible words. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” You mutter, rising to your feet. “You don’t even shut up when you’re asleep?”

“…ut it on the table.” She garbles, some syllables lost in drowsy cheeks.

“Put what on the table?”

“…The body.” 

Okay, that’s…kind of funny. 

“Of course, Root,” You say, amusement creeping into your voice. “Anything you want.”

That brings a bit of a smile to her face too, even if she is lost in Dreamland. You hunker down and lay your palm to her warm forehead for a moment, your thumb stroking an errant lock of hair. She’s getting older, you think; a few strands are gray, intermixing with the warm brown of the rest. You wonder if the Machine understands the significance of something simple like that. Does it know what it feels like to get older? To feel helpless? To worry? Root moves again in her sleep, her leaden fingers clasping around your pinky to pull your hand down to her cheek. She sighs and nuzzles into it. You straighten up, pulling away inch-by-inch so you don’t wake her.

“Take it easy for once, okay?” You mumble.

You check the monitor and see how the decryption program has progressed, relax back into your chair, and drift away again. The next morning, you wake up to find the throw blanket wrapped about your shoulders now and a hot mug of coffee on the desk, a lox bagel waiting beside it. Your mouth waters. Root ducks her head into the study.

“Hey sweetie,” She calls. “You busy?”

Another day begins.

 

 

Samaritan pisses you right the fuck off. Not only because it forces you to work at a makeup counter of all places and the numbers slow to a trickle, but also because Root is off doing god-knows-what solo again. She’s as haggard as ever and even when you’re nearby (like during Simon Lee’s fiasco) she’s about one inch away from a bullet in the head at any given time (Fuck Martine, that fucking bitch, and damn Root for throwing her guns away so carelessly), and now you’re not just bothered by it, you’re angry.

The day after Simon Lee’s number is finished you come back home after a long run in the park and Root’s drinking your milk straight from the carton like usual, one arm in a sling from the shootout at the hotel.

“Hi Sameen,” She starts on a playful note, not so playful when you snatch the carton and throw it into the sink. 

“Long morning?” She asks, with only a trace of humor. 

“If you’re ever that reckless again, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Like that’s a deterrent,” She purrs, but there’s a bit of steel in her tone, and in her eyes too. “I like it when you’re angry.”

“Cut the jokes. You’ve could’ve died, Root. Don’t pull shit like that. You’re too important to the Machine, to the team—”

There’s more there, you think, more that you want to say, but her mouth stops yours. She grips the lapel of your jacket tight in her good fist and your hands circle about her waist. 

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” You mutter between kisses. 

“You like it.” She retorts, and you press your lips together again to stop the smirk forming there. Your fingers dive for the button of her jeans.

You missed this; you missed her so hard it was like a hunger pain ripping right through you. How is it possible to miss someone that much when you saw them the day before? Forget it; you’re not sure if you want to know.

 

 

Things between you and Root change again when you work the job with Tomás. He’s smart, sexy as hell, and even though his lines are as smooth as the silk of your dress it doesn’t feel like enough. He might be all of these things you enjoy, but it’s not enough anymore; Root’s ruined you for other people. The thought feels like a stone rolling around in your stomach. Even when you silence her voice in your ear, the idea of her superimposes itself despite your intentions. You do want Tomás, you do, desperately so, because it startles you when you realize in the bar that you haven’t slept with anyone other than Root for the better part of a year; not because you haven’t had the opportunity, but because you haven’t had an interest in anyone else. So it’s an animal response—Tomás fits your bill in every niche, and though it feels weird (like trying to write with your left hand) you think that if you chase after him with gusto, perhaps that will silence the low discomfort keening in your brain about the fact that your relationship with Root has changed, that it’s bigger and deeper and _more_ than any other connection you’ve ever had. And change is normal, and you’ve stayed alive because you adapt to it, but it’s still weird.

Later, he offers you Barcelona, and you won’t take it. You don’t want to take it. You’ve adapted to the stone in your stomach now, accepted it for what it is.

“There are things I care about here.” You tell Root when the job’s over. 

“And is that why you came to see me?”

“No,” You say, but Root sees right through you. For once, you don’t mind.

 

 

Your cover is blown. You can’t protect Root, or John, or Harold, or anyone else without it, and you’re furious. But Root’s angry too.

“Samaritan’s operatives are just getting smarter and faster, so while you might not be scared about what happens to you the next time, other people are. People who care for you.”

That’s a dangerous thing, caring for you; Cole died for it, and you don’t want anyone else to suffer the same fate. 

In the elevator of the stock exchange, you know what you have to do. 

“Sameen, if you even think I’m going to let you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake—” 

You can’t use words to tell her what you know now, what you’ve finally surrendered to; there would never be enough time. A kiss will have to be enough.

When the bullet stings into your side, you fire another shot before the next drops you to the floor. Root’s scream reverberates in your ears, and by then the elevator is gone. That’s all you could do, keep her safe; that’s all you’ve ever wanted for a long time now.

You never wanted to be anyone’s hero. Just hers.

**Author's Note:**

> This might be the most difficult piece of fanfiction I've ever written. After "6741" I wondered about when Shaw started falling in love with Root, and that prompted this story. I'm not completely satisfied with it, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. Person of Interest is such a good show, and Root and Shaw are sublimely interesting, complicated women that I hope I've paid honor to as best I could. Thanks for reading!


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